


the strongest thing is to hope (when there is no hope left)

by Resacon1990



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant with 8x03, Daenerys and Jon are not together, Fluff and Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jon Snow Needs a Hug, Jon is lost, M/M, No Major Character Death, Post-Battle of Ice and Fire, Post-Battle of Winterfell, Pre-Slash, Tormund is strong and kind, Well - Freeform, but Tormund finds him, everyone knows that Tormund and Jon are a thing, not that Jon realises that, nothing new anyway, we know what happens next, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-08 22:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18904267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resacon1990/pseuds/Resacon1990
Summary: “Tormund!” he yells, cupping his hands over his mouth.He looks around for a sight of him, but he sees no flashes of red-hair or groups of wildlings. There’s nothing but black piles and barely lit faces, the only light they have from the fires raging all over the place and the slowly rising sun.Or, the Battle of Ice and Fire is over but at what cost?





	the strongest thing is to hope (when there is no hope left)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been itching to write a fic for Jonmund after the Battle of Ice and Fire (or Battle of Winterfell? Either or.) with Jon trying to find Tormund at the same time as having this ground-breaking realisation at the losses and how defeated he is.
> 
> It's just my excuse to write Jon's internal angst and his interaction with characters _after_ the end of the episode and before the funerals in episode four.
> 
> Also! This takes place in the world where Jon and Daenerys are not together but she's helping them any way. Mainly because cheating and infidelity is a huge no-no for me. 
> 
> (In case the placement of things don't make sense, I mashed together both maps of Winterfell from the [book](https://i2.wp.com/gotfan.de/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/Winterfell-Karte.png?fit=1024%2C704&ssl=1) and the [television show](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/gameofthrones/images/d/db/802_Winterfell_Battle_Plan.png/revision/latest?cb=20190422061848%22%22) for this fic.)
> 
> Enjoy xx

The moment that Viserion disintegrates in front of Jon, he has a sudden realisation over how _eerie_ Winterfell is.

There’s a wave-like sound of bones cracking and breaking, but it’s gone in a flash and Jon is left staring at an empty patch of broken courtyard with only the crackling sound of fire in the air. There’s no movement around him, just endless bodies all stacked together in heartbreaking piles. There’s too many, Jon knows. There are too many bodies. They’ve lost too much.

His family, he thinks. Sam. Davos. Gendry. Edd. Theon. Daenerys. Tormund. Oh, god, _Tormund_.

The big brute better be alive and _safe._ His hand clenches on his sword as he tries to breathe through the moment of panic that crashes over him, thick and heavy. He struggles though. Struggles to get past the smell of _death_ and burning _flesh_ as it mixes with his fear, smoke curling in the air and mixing with ash and snow _._ It clogs his mouth and his nose and makes him choke, suffocating him enough that he needs to duck back down behind his cover of debris to try and just _breathe_.

It’s harder down here. The thick dampness of the earth, slick with blood, the dust from the rubble leeching into the air around him. It’s too much. It feels like a blind hysteria covering him as he can’t breathe and there’s nothing to hear, no sign of life, _nothing_ around him, there’s _nothing_ and he’s alone and everyone is _dead_.

But then he hears a shout, a cry that breaks through the fog around him, and suddenly he _can_ breathe, suddenly he _can_ move, and he stands up as quickly as he can and starts to rush forward. He doesn’t have a direction. This courtyard is long since empty of life, but there’s someone just in the archway and they’re waving their torch in the air as they shout out for someone to return.

“Here!” Jon cries out, his voice ripping out his pained throat with a surprising force. “I’m here!”

“It’s the King!” the voice yells back, and it’s joined by others who’re letting out celebratory whoops, and Jon stumbles over the debris around him and ignores the pain through his arms and legs and _everywhere_ as he races to join the growing group in the archway.

They’re his men, Stark soldiers, and Jon crashes into the man with the torch as he trips over a rock, but he’s caught by multiple strong hands and held up as they say words he can barely hear. He’s exhausted, shattered to the very core. It’s over, he thinks, it’s _over_ , but at what cost?

The small group is watching him with expectant eyes, he realises as he rights himself. Jon recognises the look, he’s seen it many times. A group of men holding themselves together because there’s a plan, their commander has a _plan_. They need something else to do, something to focus on less they start falling apart too, and for a moment Jon doesn’t _want_ this responsibility. _He_ wants to fall apart, he just wants to give up and let go and let someone else take charge.

He’s over this. He’s done. 

But he can’t be. He nods his head at the small group, spots the few at the back that is just joining. The survivors, he realises. He can hear shouting over the ramparts, people calling to each other that they’re alive, they’re here, they’re trapped and need help, they can assist if needed. There are people out there, and they need a leader.

He knows he has to step up again, but there’s a dread in his stomach. He thinks of his family, Arya, Bran, and Sansa. Thinks of where they are, hopes they’re okay. He knows they are, there’s a feeling in his chest that’s still whole. They’re not gone. They’re somewhere.

Suddenly, his eyes go wide. “To the crypts,” he orders quickly, and his men look at him with frowns. “To the crypts! The women and children!” he yells, throwing his hands out as his men start to scuttle. He can feel the cold claw of horror crawling up his throat as he thinks of what’s just happened, where they've put the women and children. In the _crypts_.

They’re facing the undead, and they put them in the _crypts_.

“Go!” he snaps at the stragglers. He’s frantic by now, terror starting to blind him. He knows Sansa is safe, he can feel it, but Gilly? Tyrion? Varys? All of them might be dead and it’ll have been _his_ fault for not thinking straight.

He’s rushing behind the group as they head for the crypts, past the armoury and guard’s hall, himself heading for the Godswood where he’d agreed with Tormund before the battle they were to meet post battle if they _survived_ , but he stops when he spots a small pile of bodies in the second courtyard. Only, the one on top is moving, groaning and crying, and Jon could spot Samwell bloody Tarly from a damn mile away, and he quickly diverts to rush over to him.

“Sam,” he calls as he crashes into the pile of bodies and fights off nausea as bones break and blood starts to soak into his already ruined clothes. He reaches out and grips Sam’s shoulders, pulling up from his lying position. “Sam, talk to me.”

He’s babbling and crying and Jon’s heart _aches_ for him. He’s not meant for battle. He never has been, and Jon never wanted this to happen to him. But then Sam meets his eyes and they grow just the slightest bit wide with, hopefully, recognition. “Jon?” he asks, his voice a trembling broken mess. “Jon? Is it over?”

“It’s over,” Jon says as he wraps his arms around Sam and tries to haul him up. “The Night King is dead. It’s _over_ , Sam.”

Sam’s bottom lip is trembling and his eyes are focused on something that’s clearly not there. “Edd’s dead,” he says quietly, and Jon’s arms falter as he feels a horrendous pang go through his chest. Edd. Not Edd. Loyal, brave, _stupid_ Edd. He can’t be.

But he is. Jon knows he is. Sam isn’t lying, Sam would never lie, and after a hesitant moment, he starts to yank at Sam’s arms and shoulders again to haul him to his feet.

“Come on,” he mutters. Sam’s not fighting against him, but he might as well be with his dead weight. “Come on, you asshole. Get _up_. You need to find Gilly and-”

The moment he says her name, it’s like Sam’s fog clears. His eyes snap to Jon and are filled with clarity as he grips Jon’s arms and hauls himself to his feet. He’s still crying, it looks like he’s almost drowning himself in his tears as they cut through the blood and gore on his cheeks, but there’s a determination to his stance that shows he’s ready to continue.

“The crypts,” Jon says as he shakes Sam’s shoulders. “Head to the crypts.”

“And you?” Sam asks, his voice small and hesitant. His eyes keep flittering about, and Jon wonders what he’s seeing. 

“I need to find the others,” Jon tells him. He needs to search for them. If Edd is gone and Sam is like this… he grits his teeth and fights past the wave of panic as he thinks of what they could all be like.

“You need to find Tormund,” Sam says, his voice a little strong. He must see Jon’s surprised look as he shakes his head. “None of us are stupid, Jon. Go find him. Everyone else will be fine.”

He’s still unsure, Sam is swaying heavily on his feet, but eventually, Jon nods hesitantly before he lets Sam go and starts to bolt off across the debris and bodies towards the Godswood. Bran and Theon should be there as well, he thinks. Hopefully, Tormund has made his way there by now. Jon doesn’t know what he’ll do if he hasn’t.

It takes him a furiously long time to get there. There are people everywhere, some screaming, some still dying, some silent. Winterfell is a ruined mess, the cries of the damned everywhere, and Jon shouts at them all to head to the crypts as he rushes past. He’s useless, he doesn’t know what to do, but _Sansa_ will. Sansa will take charge and lead the people. He trusts her to do so. But it doesn’t stop the anguish he feels as he rushes past familiar faces, some dead and some alive, and there’s _nothing_ he can do to change that.

He crashes through the Godswood entrance with zero grace, tripping and stumbling through the rocks blocking half of the entrance. He pushes through the trees, following the decayed bodies of the undead until he reaches the clearing around the weirwood tree. There are Ironborn bodies everywhere, and Jon pauses for just a moment as he spots the one right in front of him, recognises the face.

Theon.

The pain that bursts out of his chest is agonising, and he pauses for just a moment to kneel down beside Theon’s body. His eyes are wide and sightless, looking towards the trees and undead, and Jon reaches forward and slowly closes them as he feels the pain travelling from his chest to _burn_ behind his eyes. He can’t cry, if he does he’ll choke on them and never stop, but this was his _brother_. No matter what they did or how much they hurt each other, Theon is a _Stark_ , and is always going to be Jon’s _brother_.

“Jon?”

He recognises Arya’s voice immediately, and he glances up to see both her and Bran sitting by the weirwood tree. Bran in his wheelchair, Arya crumpled in the snow beside him. She looks anguished, wrecked, and Jon gets to his feet and staggers towards them both, his feet crunching against the snow. When he’s close enough, he hits the ground and reaches out to pull Arya as close as he can get her.

“You’re alive,” he says in her ear, his words sounding desperate but so damn _relieved_. He glances up to see Bran watching them with impassive eyes, but a corner of his mouth turns up into a small smile. It’s enough, and Jon squeezes his eyes closed as he buries his face in Arya’s shoulder and holds her _close_.

Both of them are trembling, shaking as they cling to each other. Jon doesn’t want to let her go, just holds the back of her head and reminds himself over and over that she’s _alive_ and so is Bran and Sansa, dear Sansa, she’s alive too. He _knows_ that.

“She killed him,” Bran suddenly says, and that makes Jon’s eyes pop open as he pulls back from Arya. He glances up at Bran who inclines his head at him. “The Night King. With Valyrian steel.”

Jon’s eyes drop to the dagger lying on the ground, _Arya’s_ dagger. Around it is shards of ice, and he _knows_ what it looks like when a White Walker has been slain. That was what his feet were crunching on, not snow but shards of ice. The Night King was here, all the white walkers were here, and his grip tightens on Arya as he pulls her the rest of the way back to look down at her. There are tear streaks mixed with the blood and grime coating her face, and Jon watches her for a long moment before he smiles.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “Arya, _thank you_.”

She looks uncertain before she smiles right back. “I always believed you, you know,” she says to him, one of her hands coming up to press against Jon’s cheek. “But this… I don’t know how we survived this.”

Jon continues to smile, pushing through the need to crumble right now, but he reaches up to hold her hand pressed to his cheek. “You did amazing,” he tells her. “I’m so proud of you.”

Arya nods her head and grips his hand back before she pushes him away. “He’s not here,” she says, and Jon blinks at her for a moment until Arya gives him a shake. “Tormund, Jon,” she points out with a hard voice. “He’s not here.”

He’s brought back to reality with a snap, and he glances around the dark Godswood. The braziers from Theon’s Iron-born are still burning, but there’s no sign of any movement amongst the trees. They’re alone, just the three of them, and Jon lets Arya go as he staggers to his feet.

“Tormund!” he yells, eyes flitting between all the trees, _desperate_ to see him. “ _Tormund_!”

“He’s not here!” Arya repeats, her voice loud as she reaches for Jon’s arm and shakes him. He ignores her though, ripping his arm away as his barely held-back panic starts to rear it’s head again. He has to be here. If he’s not here then… Jon can’t think of the alternative. He _can’t_.

“He was at the north gate,” Bran speaks up, his voice cutting through the crackling silence between the three of them. Jon glances back to see Bran staring at Jon with unreadable eyes. “I saw him as I left Winterfell.”

Jon doesn’t question him. He knows about Bran’s warging abilities but it’s the last thing on his mind. The north gate was the gate the undead came through, was the gate that was overrun so early in the battle, where Edd and Sam were, where Edd _died_.

Tormund can’t be, Jon thinks. No. He can’t.

It doesn’t stop the rush of shock he feels and he gives the other two barely a nod before he’s crashing back through the trees to the entrance again. He needs to get to the north gate, needs to get there _now_ , but its when he gets to the archway of the Godswood entrance that he starts to see the mass of survivors as the crypts across from them are emptied of all the women and children.

The road leading to the north gate is packed full of people. People reuniting, those desperately looking for their families, ones that’ve found them in the piles of bodies littered around. It’s a mess, a dysfunctional nightmare that Jon needs to push through.

He gets stopped multiple times, people calling out his name, trying to touch him, desperate for his guidance. He can’t think, can’t _lead_ , and he tries to get through them as unscathed as possible. He spots Tyrion, pushing through the crowd from the other direction, Sansa following behind him with her head held high and orders on her tongue. Jon reaches out a hand as he pushes past them and her fingertips glide across his palm before they’re sucked into the crowd once again.

There’s not many when Jon finally pushes out the other side, finally able to taste air that’s not filled with the stench of fear and anguish. There are only a few stragglers making their way into the mob, most being carried by others. There are lots of wounded, too many wounded, and Jon feels fingers graze his ankles as he walks by some. He doesn’t think there’s much he can do, but by the time he hits the half destroyed gate, he glances behind in time to see uniformed groups breaking off from the mass with stretchers and medicine bags. 

Sansa is a gift, he thinks for a brief moment, knowing it’s her work.

“Tormund!” he yells, cupping his hands over his mouth. He looks around for a sight of him, but he sees no flashes of red-hair or groups of wildlings. There’s nothing but black piles and barely lit faces, the only light they have from the fires raging all over the place and the slowly rising sun.

He pushes outside the gate but stumbles to a halt when he sees a mountain of bodies in front of it. A literal mountain, three times Jon’s height. He doesn’t pause as he lurches towards it, pulling and pushing through the mass as he tries to find even a _glimpse_ of red-hair amongst it all. 

Bones of arms and legs come off in his grasp, gore leaking down over the sightless faces of those on the pile. He goes through Unsullied, dismounted Dothraki, Northerners of all houses. He calls Tormund’s name over and over, desperate to find him, but there’s no response from the mountain of bodies.

He pulls back and starts to look at the walls. There are undead piled up to climb over them, but there’s no one at the top of the ramparts. He sees something moving down the way, just out of reach of the light from the still burning trench, but it when it gets closer it turns out to only be a horse.

“Tormund!” Jon tries to cry out again, but his voice is giving out on him. He’s distraught, head pounding as he takes in everything around him. All the bodies. So many bodies. There’s nothing moving out here, no living. He can see that and he _knows_ that, and the sudden wave of nausea still rips up his throat and he starts to cough, choking on his own tongue as he bends over and heaves and heaves over the gruesome horror around him.

“Jon?”

His eyes have black spots dancing in front of them as he nearly turns himself inside out with the sheer force of his coughs, nothing coming out from his empty stomach, but he can hear Davos’s voices and he recognises the feeling of a fingerless hand on his back.

“Jon, breathe.”

He can’t. He can’t breathe. The stench is awful, the death toll too high, the panic so ugly as he realises he can’t find Tormund, that he might be amongst this pile, that he should’ve _been_ in the Godswood if not _here_.

Davos is saying something in his ear but Jon can’t hear it. He squeezes his eyes shut and drops to a crouch, his head feeling light and heavy all at once. His fingers are trembling where they press against his face. It’s over. He knows it's over. But it’s not, it’s not over and he doesn’t know what to think or do and he just _can’t_.

“Move over!”

The arrival of someone new has Jon nearly tipping over in his crouch as they nearly plough into his side. He reaches out blindly and grips a handful of fur, pulling himself upright, and it's only because he doesn’t know anyone else that wears this disgusting amount of fleece that he manages to force his eyes open to look directly into Tormund’s face.

“I’m here, little crow,” Tormund says, a smile on his gore-covered face, barely able to be made out in the darkness. Jon blinks at him blankly until Tormund shakes his head and raises a hand to cup Jon’s cheek. “I’m here. I’m alive.”

“Tormund?” Jon asks, not too sure if this is real or some panic induced dream. He’s heard of those. Hallucinations. He’s never had one before but he doesn’t see why he can’t start having them now.

Tormund doesn’t seem to be having any of it though as he huffs before dropping his hand to take one of Jon’s. He steadies them in their crouches with his other arm as he brings Jon’s hand up to push aside the fur covering his chest and presses Jon’s palm to his bare chest.

“I’m alive,” he repeats, keeping eye contact. “Focus on my heartbeat, Jon. You can do this.”

His words are firm, offering no room for argument, and Jon glances behind him just briefly to see Gendry and Davos watching them before his eyes flicker back to Tormund’s. He focuses on his hand, focuses on where it’s pressed against Tormund’s skin with the feeling of soft chest hair wrapping around the sides of his palm, focuses on the rising and falling of Tormund chest in perfect time with his breathing, focuses on the sound of a beating heart underneath.

“You’re here,” Jon hears himself saying, his voice sounding far away. “You’re alive.”

“As are you,” Tormund murmurs, and Jon shakes his head. He doesn’t believe that. Of all the odds, this… this never occurred to him.

Tormund had said it before this battle. _We’re all going to die, but at least we’ll die together_. Jon was prepared for that. Prepared to die taking down the Night King and even prepared to fail in doing so. But living? It was such a farfetched concept and yet here he is, breathing in sync with this man that holds his heart, both _alive_.

He leans forward, his calves finally giving out as his knees hit the ground for the hundredth time today. Tormund lets out a surprised noise but catches him as Jon pushes his face beside his hand, still focusing on Tormund’s rising and falling chest. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to face everything happening around him.

“It’s okay,” Tormund says above him, his other arm wrapping even more tightly around Jon’s shoulders and his thumb rubbing soothing strokes on the back of Jon’s hand. “It’s over. We won.”

“Did we?” Jon asks, his voice quiet and muffled. He doesn’t feel like they did. They haven’t won anything. They’ve just _survived_.

Tormund doesn’t respond. Maybe he doesn’t have an answer, maybe he doesn’t know what to say, maybe he just agrees. Jon doesn’t know as he closes his eyes and just _breathes_.

He hears footsteps coming and going, Davos and Gentry talking in quiet tones, the sound of peoples screaming and crying slowly dying down, and after enough time has passed he thinks he can face the world again, and eventually, Jon starts to pull away.

It takes a few tries, but he manages to pull back enough from Tormund enough to be able to look up and meet his eyes again. With the new light, from the sunrise, he can see how wild Tormund looks with scratches across his face, blood nearly covering all his skin, and an already formed black eye. But he still wears a smile as he watches Jon, and the red and orange of the sunrise mix with the orange colour of his hair and Jon doesn’t think there’s anything else he’d want to see to remind him that yes, yes they are alive and going to be okay.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice small as his throat hurts with each word. It’s strained from his own screaming and crying, sanded raw and painful.

Tormund doesn’t say anything, but he tips Jon’s head forward as he leans down and presses his lips to Jon’s forehead. It’s such a gentle kiss, tender in this hellish moment, and Jon’s breath catches as his fingers curl into Tormund’s chest.

The moment disappears though as someone clears their throat, and Jon pushes back to see Davos watching them with kind eyes. “It’s time to go,” he says, sounding regretful as he does so, and Gendry nods beside him. 

Davos is right though. The sun is up, the people of Winterfell need direction and leadership. Jon needs to pull himself together to stand strong beside Sansa and Daenerys. They’ve survived this war, the Night King is dead, they’re _alive_ , and it’s time now.

It’s time to start living again.

He slowly stands up, his knees aching and his body trembles with exhaustion. Tormund lets him go, eyes following Jon as he rises, and Jon doesn’t hesitate in reaching out a hand to him the moment he steadies himself.

“Come with me?” he asks, and Tormund smiles at him as he takes Jon’s hand and hauls himself to his feet. He doesn’t let go when they stand together, and Jon doesn’t want him too. He doesn’t want to let go of Tormund ever again.

The light makes their surroundings that little less desolate. He can see the people around the gate, moving together in groups, the wounded being assisted, the survivors still reuniting. There are familiar faces that glance Jon’s way, most looking for that bit of reassurance that Jon knows he can provide. 

There’s hope here. They may have lost a phenomenal amount, but there is _hope_.

He knows his job, he knows his place, and he grips Tormund’s hand tight and gives him one last smile before he rolls his shoulders and leads them back into Winterfell.

 

...


End file.
